I want to touch your hands,
To run my fingers up the length of each of yours,
Trace each concentric whorl,
Ever so softly, ever so slowly.
I want to know each crease and fold.
I’d brush the hairs the wrong way and make them stand.
Climbing from cuticle to tip,
the crevices at the corner where skin and nail meet
in smooth, perfect, rounded union.
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